#extra scene

Kim Dokja was seething.

Yoo Joonghyuk—what was he doing? He still towered over you, puffing all over your heavenly scent. And you...

You weren't moving away.

Something uncomfortable tightened in his stomach as Yoo Joonghyuk stared at you. The way Yoo Joonghyuk normally looked at him. Wasn't Kim Dokja the only one that could have that gaze?

Kim Dokja stood by the corner window at just the right angle to see into the store. He sulked, for once not satisfied with merely watching from afar. His fingers clenched the white fabric of his coat.

Someone hip-checked him and he nearly toppled over. The passerby glanced at him, bewildered. Kim Dokja stared at the woman until she scuttled away.

It happened often. Kim Dokja was used to being a forgettable presence, the sort of person no one realized was standing beside them until he spoke. He didn't mind the way their eyes skimmed over his form, as if he were part of the background. In fact, it often helped. Especially with his...hobbies of choice.

You were different.

You ran into him two months ago, crashing into him the way everyone did, and your eyes landed on him. Considered. And smiled.

Kim Dokja felt seen. He, the ghostly observer, was tethered back to earth with a single, dazzling smile.

For the first time, Kim Dokja wanted to be seen by someone. He needed it. Needed more of you. Kim Dokja had always had a rather addictive personality, but you were the sweetest drug yet.

Now, Kim Dokja observed you with Yoo Joonghyuk. Emotions coursed through his veins like wildfire, but he wasn't able to pick them out.

Oh. Anger.

That was what surfaced as Kim Dokja witnessed Yoo Joonghyuk pull you from your flower of choice to another. Kim Dokja's head pressed painfully against the glass.

He only retreated to the shadows once Yoo Joonghyuk left. And then you.

Kim Dokja's spirits lifted at the soft smile on your face as you stroked the flower petals. Serene. Beautiful. He wanted to go to you, to sweep you up in his arms—

A hawkish man on the sidewalk turned his head with a leer, angled himself, and crashed into you.

...Kim Dokja trembled with rage.

"You killed him."

Yoo Joonghyuk appeared at the mouth of the alleyway. He glanced back to a deserted street, then stormed over.

"It's eleven! Eleven in the morning, Kim Dokja," barked Yoo Joonghyuk. "What the fuck were you thinking? No—you weren't thinking!"

If Kim Dokja had known Yoo Joonghyuk would berate him, he wouldn't have bothered to text. He traced the deep, curving slashes etched into the man's chest. Readjusted severed fingers so they matched up with the palms.

"I can't believe you did this in broad daylight. Where has your head gone? I'm sick of your distractedness lately. Just kill—"

"He touched her."

Yoo Joonghyuk paused.

Kim Dokja shook, from his hands to his eyes. "That filthy thing touched her. She's mine."

Yoo Joonghyuk's expression flickered. His jaw tensed. "He...shouldn't have gotten in the way of your mark," he amended.

"That's right." Kim Dokja was filled with relief. Yoo Joonghyuk understood. Of course he did.

They both flinched when a car honked in the distance. The sound shook Yoo Joonghyuk out of his brooding, and he pursed his lips, looking down at the body long and hard.

"God, Dokja."

The detached head had rolled sideways, with jagged, gaping holes where the eyes should have been. Kim Dokja might have gone a bit overboard. But he couldn't help it, every time those eyes had looked at him, he remembered the way they dared to latch on to you.

"At least you had the sense to do this far away from that store," said Yoo Joonghyuk in a low voice, using the toe of his boot to nudge the head facing upright.

"...You were watching too." It wasn't a question.

"I—" Yoo Joonghyuk's gaze remained fastened to the body. "Yes."

They lingered uneasily over the stretch of silence.

Yoo Joonghyuk cleared his throat. "I had to make sure she wouldn't cause more trouble. For our game."

Kim Dokja's eyes narrowed. "You spent a long time with her there."

He burned inside, recalling the image of you and flowers. Of his own companion, grasping your soft wrist to guide it to another bloom. How you offered that smile...his smile...to Yoo Joonghyuk. Kim Dokja bruised the inside of his cheek between his teeth, tasting blood.

"She asked me about the calls." Yoo Joonghyuk huffed. "She wants police help."

"Police help? Or yours?"

A fire sparked in Yoo Joonghyuk's eyes. "She said she was called this morning."

"She's pretty. Likable. I'm sure many people want to talk to her." The words, though meant to be scathing, left a sour taste on Kim Dokja's tongue.

"Why did you call, Kim Dokja?"

Kim Dokja folded his arms. He chose childish silence.

"That wasn't the plan."

"It wasn't the plan for you to call her at the bar! You just couldn't wait, could you?"

"I've never seen you lose your mind like this. Over a kill," snarled Yoo Joonghyuk. When Kim Dokja didn't react, Yoo Joonghyuk gripped his shoulders hard.

Kim Dokja shoved him back. "My mind is just fine."

"She's no different from animal prey, Kim Dokja!"

"She is."

He couldn't help the raw tremble of honesty in his voice, and he sank to his knees. "Everything about this is different. More powerful. Thrilling. If I'm close to her, I get to experience her fear. You don't know what it's like, feeling her blind trust in me, imagining what face she'll make when we reach the end. I need to see what she looks like, flayed open and dripping from my knife."

"Before or after you fuck her again," said Yoo Joonghyuk coldly.

Kim Dokja's ears went pink, his neck hot. "That's irrelevant," he muttered.

Yoo Joonghyuk sighed viciously. He crouched in front of Kim Dokja, searching his features.

A throb on Kim Dokja's right collarbone prompted him to slide a hand into Yoo Joonghyuk's coat pocket, rooting around. He withdrew a band aid. Yoo Joonghyuk always kept a few on hand, knowing how accident-prone Kim Dokja could be.

Kim Dokja pulled aside his shirt to stick it on, and Yoo Joonghyuk snorted, "It's too small."

Blood dripped slowly, his wound barely covered by the dressing. He would have to swap his shirt out now that this one was torn. Kim Dokja shivered. His white coat was in a crumpled heap by the garbage bin, having cast it aside when he first cornered the man. "I misjudged his reaction time," he said.

Strong fingers tucked the shirt back over his exposed skin. They curled behind his neck.

Kim Dokja closed his eyes as Yoo Joonghyuk's face came closer. He felt a forehead rest against his, familiar breath warming his winter-chilled nose. A calloused hand slid across his cheek.

"We can keep enjoying this," whispered Yoo Joonghyuk. "But we have to play with caution."

Kim Dokja nodded slowly.

"Good."

The warmth retreated. When Kim Dokja opened his eyes, Yoo Joonghyuk had already drawn a hunting knife from his coat and begun sawing at the body. "I'll dispose. You watch for any nosy shits."

"I can help." Kim Dokja wrung his hands. It was his own mess, after all.

"Keep a lookout," Yoo Joonghyuk repeated, more gently. "I'll take care of this."

"Okay."

Yoo Joonghyuk called out his name before he could go. "Put it back," he said with one corner of his mouth quirked up.

Kim Dokja reluctantly replaced the pinky next to its rightful hand. "You're no fun, Joonghyuk-ah. Maybe next round, we should kill whoever is holding your youthful whimsy hostage."

He chuckled and dodged an expert swipe of the knife aimed at his hamstrings.

An acute sense of shame gripped Kim Dokja as he loitered by the entrance of the alleyway. For the first time, he wasn't the one to purge evidence; it was usually him cleaning up after Yoo Joonghyuk's uncouth violence. He looked down the alley a few times and noted the subtle, pleased expression on his companion's face as he worked.

Yoo Joonghyuk may have been a ferocious murder machine, but he did work quickly when the situation demanded it. They were soon exchanging farewells and going their separate ways.

Kim Dokja found himself back at his current favorite perch.

A stairwell in the abandoned wing of an old building, the window perfectly level with your flat. He could observe your living room from here unobstructed. It was good, because you spent most of your time in there.

(You often left your windows open. Kim Dokja was especially fond of how little regard you had for prying eyes late at night, like the time you were up past midnight, sprawled on the couch, nothing but a few candles to cast a dim glow on your form. He watched, mesmerized, as your fingers slipped under the waistband of your lounge pants, your back arching, face contorting and producing sounds he wished he could bottle up and consume—)

You were arranging the bouquet of poppies into a clear vase on your dining table. The flowers made Kim Dokja's spine straighten like a trigger for a sleeper agent.

He sped down the stairs, typing florists near me on his phone. His mind flashed to the other flower you had lingered over. Yes, perfect.

Yoo Joonghyuk's flowers would look best stuffed away unseen, while Kim Dokja's were proudly on display in your home. A mark of his presence in your life. His irritation from earlier was growing once more as he pictured your smile at the lesser blooms.

Seven p.m. couldn't arrive soon enough.

hm. kim dokja didn't skin you alive in the end, so I think it's safe to say he had a change of heart when the moment finally arrived...

"You are not fine," Wes said, his voice firmer than it had been in days. He stepped closer, his journalist's eyes missing nothing: the slight hitch in Danny's breathing, the way he favored his left side. "You're hurt."

"Just a scratch. I've had worse." Danny tried to wave him off, heading for the kitchen and the first-aid kit he had put under the sink. There was another in the bathroom, but this one was closer and this burn hurt. "Comes with the territory of being half-dead."

He said it so casually, but the words slammed into Wes with the force of a physical blow. Half-dead. Danny was a ghost, ghosts are dead people,  Danny was one of those dead people, he died. His mouth felt like it was filled with ash.

The reality of it, which had always been an abstract, intellectual concept from his blog research, suddenly became terrifyingly concrete. This wasn't a fun secret or a supernatural power trip. This was a kid—a kid he'd tormented—who had died and now regularly got hurt protecting people who would never know.

"Let me," Wes said, his voice tight. He took the kit from Danny's hands and guided him to sit at the kitchen table.

Danny was too tired to argue. He sat, pulling up his shirt to reveal a vicious, sizzling burn across his ribs, glowing faintly with residual ecto-energy.

Wes sucked in a sharp breath. "Danny..."

"See? Nothing a little antiseptic and a nap won't fix," Danny said, trying for levity and missing by a mile. "The whole 'accelerated healing' thing is pretty neat."

He didn't answer. His hands were surprisingly steady as he cleaned the wound, his movements careful and precise. Wes decided to ignore the number of other scars he could see. This wasn't the moment nor the place for that. 

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts.

"You know," Wes said quietly, not looking up from his work, "When I was writing that blog... I was so obsessed with proving you were Phantom. I thought exposing you was the ultimate truth. I never once... I never truly thought about what that would mean for you."

Danny stayed silent, watching him.

"If I had succeeded..." Wes's voice dropped to a whisper. "Your parents... the GIW... Red Huntress. I painted a target on your back for all of them. I could have gotten you killed. Permanently."

The guilt in his voice was a living thing. It wasn't the performative, cowed guilt from the last few days. This was deep, visceral, and horribly sincere.

Danny let out a long, slow breath. "Yeah. You could have." He didn't offer forgiveness, not yet. But he offered the truth. "It's not fun and games, Wes. It's... this." He gestured vaguely at the injury.

Wes finished taping the bandage in place, his job done. He finally looked up, meeting Danny's eyes. His own were shining with a painful mix of remorse and a newfound, fierce understanding. "I see that now."

The day had started normally.

Or as normally as it could be when it came to Ridoc and Jackson.

They had already pulled two minorly successful pranks.

Maybe three.

The two of them couldn’t remember.

The first had been Garrick’s.

One boot swapped for another.

No traction, plus his sword is missing.

Mix that with a hallway that had been very conveniently waxed.

Garrick had not been amused.

Not when he was staring at the ceiling.

The second had been…

Unintentional.

On Jackson’s part.

Ridoc had asked for help.

Something about camouflage.

Atrom now stood somewhere between black and green.

Very much not his usual brown.

And very much not pleased.

Which is how the two of them had ended up running.

And running.

And running.

Now…..

They stood in the courtyard.

Panting.

Trying to catch their breath.

“You know,” Jackson says between breaths, “maybe we should stop for the day.”

Ridoc gives him a look.

The kind that says that was never going to happen.

With or without him.

A few moments pass.

Jackson frowns slightly.

“I feel like we forgot something.”

The crash behind them answers the observation. 

Followed by coughing.

They both turn.

Slowly.

In the doorway to the courtyard

Stood Xaden.

Covered.

Head to toe.

In flour.

Jackson blinks.

“…right.”

They share a look.

A silent agreement that this had gone slightly wrong.

Xaden doesn’t move at first.

Like he’s still processing it.

Then his gaze lifts.

“Ridoc.”

They both take a step back.

Xaden takes one forward.

“Riorson,” Ridoc starts quickly, hands already up, “in my defense, that wasn’t meant for you.”

Xaden’s expression doesn’t change.

“And who,” he asks slowly, “was it meant for?”

Ridoc hesitates.

Just for a second.

“…Garrick.”

Xaden doesn’t need to look.

He already knows.

Jackson is trying very hard not to laugh.

Very badly.

A shadow shifts.

Then another.

A low, familiar rumble.

Ridoc freezes.

“…we should go.”

Jackson nods immediately.

“Agreed.”

They turn running as fast as they could while trying not to laugh. 

“THIS WAS YOUR IDEA,” Ridoc shouts.

“YOU SAID IT WAS CAMOUFLAGE,” Jackson yells back.

“IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE.”

Behind them

The ground shakes.

Aatrom finally breaking the boys’ false sense of security.

One look, that’s all that’s shared between Xaden and the brown swordtail.

Xaden chuckles, glancing up.

“They’re all yours. Just don’t burn Jackson. I’d hate to have to explain that to his mother.”

Xaden turns walking back inside.

Already done with them.

The boys don’t get far.

Aatrom wastes no time.

Claws snap down

Lifting them clean off the ground.

“WAIT!”

“NO! NOPE!”

They are carried.

Briefly.

Then dropped. Straight into the nearest lake.

By the time they make it back to the house, they are soaked.

Making back up to the house laughing and drenched head to toe, the boys freeze looking at the door to the house. 

“Shhhhhh” Jackson hisses, looking up at the door.

 “…shit.”

The door is already open.

You’re standing there.

Jackson freezes.

“…hi, Mom.”

It comes out with the guilt of a thousand men.

You give him a look.

“It was his fault.” Jackson fingers fly out pointing at Ridoc. 

Ridoc’s head snaps toward him.

“Woah… woah. . . woah. You can’t just blame me. Besides, we haven’t even been accused of”

The words die on his lips.

Because he sees him.

Behind you.

Xaden.

Dry now.

Clean.

And very much aware.

The grin on his face says everything.

“Dad’s a tattletale,” Jackson mutters, attempting quietly and failing miserably. “I told you that.”

Xaden places a hand over his heart.

“Jackson,” he says, mock wounded, “me? A tattletale?”

The smile widens.

“…yes. Yes, I am.”

A beat.

“Let’s call it even.”

The next morning starts…

Quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

Which is exactly why Ridoc should have known better.

But he doesn’t.

He’s mid-sentence.

Talking.

Hands moving.

“…and I’m telling you, it wasn’t even that bad”

Jackson snorts from where he’s sitting nearby.

“It was absolutely that bad.”

Ridoc points at him.

“You fell in the lake too.”

“Your dragon dropped me.”

“You laughed.”

“I did laugh….”

Something shifts.

Subtle.

Easy to miss.

Unless you’re looking for it.

Jackson stills.

Just slightly.

“…Ridoc.”

Ridoc doesn’t stop talking. “and frankly I think I handled the situation with a lot of maturity”

“Ridoc.”

“What?”

The shadow behind him moves.

There’s a whoosh.

A split second of silence

And then

THUD.

Flour.

Everywhere.

Ridoc freezes.

White.

Completely.

Absolutely covered.

Jackson loses it.

Gone.

Laughing so hard he nearly falls out of his chair.

Ridoc blinks.

Slowly.

Once.

Twice.

“…what.”

A shadow peels back from the corner of the room.

Xaden steps forward.

Hands already sliding into his pockets.

Calm.

Composed.

Like he didn’t just drop an entire bucket of flour on a man using shadows.

Ridoc turns.

Still processing.

Still… white.

“You”

Xaden tilts his head slightly.

“Now we’re even.”

Ridoc stares at him.

Speechless.

For once.

Jackson is still laughing.

Fully committed.

“You deserved that,” he manages between breaths.

Xaden doesn’t look at him.

“Don’t start things you can’t finish,” he says evenly.

And then he’s walking away.

Like nothing happened.

Like this was always going to happen.

Ridoc stands there.

Slowly turning toward Jackson.

“…I’m going to get you back for that.”

Jackson immediately backs up. “That had nothing to do with me.”

“You were involved.”

“I was a victim.”

“You laughed.”

“I am laughing.”

Ridoc lunges.

Jackson runs.

And just like that

The peace is gone.

Again.